Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(35)

Every Sunday her family went to church. I wanted to go to church with them because Dori always looked so pretty in her white church dress with light blue piping, but my father told me church was for the ignorant. Instead, I would visit Dori's house on Sunday afternoons and she would tell me stories she had heard that morning, such as baby Moses, or Noah and his ark, or Jesus' miraculous birth in a manger. And I would say a little prayer with her, even though it made me feel guilty. I liked the way her face looked when she prayed, the serene smile that would settle across her lips.

I wondered if she had prayed down here. I wondered if she had prayed to live, or if she had prayed for God's mercy to take her away. I wanted to pray. I wanted to fall down on my knees and beg God to take some of this huge pressure out of my chest, because I felt like a fist had reached inside of me and was squeezing my heart, and I did not know how one person could live with so much pain, which merely made me wonder how her parents had ever gotten through all these years.

Is this what life comes down to in the end? Young girls forced to choose between a life spent running from the shadows or a premature death alone in the dark? What kind of monster did such a thing? Why couldn't Dori have escaped?

I was happy in that instant that my parents were dead. That they didn't have to know what had happened to Dori or what my father's decision had meant for his daughter's best friend.

But then in the next moment, I felt uneasy. Another rippling shadow in the recesses of my mind…

He knew. I don't know how I knew it, but I did. My father had known what had happened to Dori, and that filled me with a greater sense of unease than even the four closing walls.

I couldn't take it anymore. My hands came up, cradled my forehead.

"We will have to wait for the forensic anthropologist's reports to know more about the victims," Sergeant Warren was saying.

I merely nodded.

"Suffice it to say, we're looking for someone very methodical, extremely intelligent, and depraved."

Another short nod.

"Naturally, anything you might remember about that time—and particularly the UNSUB watching your house—would be most useful."

"I would like to go up now," I said.

No one argued. Detective Dodge led the way. At the top, he offered me his hand. I refused, climbing out on my own. The wind had picked up, rustling loudly through the dying leaves. I tilted my face toward the stinging breeze. Then I curled my fingers into a fist, feeling beneath my fingernails the grim remnants of my best friend's grave.




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Chapter 14


WHEN WE RETURNED to the vehicles, a patrol officer stood waiting for us. He drew Sergeant Warren aside, speaking in a low voice.

"How many times have you seen him?" she asked sharply.

"Three or four."

"Who does he say he is?"

"Says he used to work here. That he knows something. But he'll only speak to the officer in charge."

Warren looked over the officer's head, to where Detective Dodge and I stood. "Got a minute?" she asked, clearly meaning Bobby, not me.

He glanced at me. I shrugged. "I can wait in the car."

That seemed to be the right answer. Warren turned back to the patrol officer. "Bring him up. He wants to talk so bad, let's hear what he has to say"

I returned to the Crown Vic; I didn't mind. I wanted out of the wind, away from the sights and smells. I wasn't thinking of nature hikes anymore. They should bring in bulldozers and raze this place to the ground.

I slumped down in the passenger's seat, obediently removing myself from view. The moment Detective Dodge crossed to Sergeant Warren's side, however, I cracked the window.

The patrol officer returned in a matter of minutes. He brought with him an older gentleman with a thick shock of white hair and a surprisingly brisk step.

"Name's Charles," he boomed, shaking Warren's hand, shaking Dodge's. "Charlie Marvin. Used to work at the hospital during my college days. Thanks for seeing me. You the officer in charge?" He turned expectantly to Detective Dodge, who did a side nudge with his head. Charlie followed the motion to Sergeant Warren. "Oops," the man boomed, but smiled so broadly it was hard not to like him. "Don't mind me," he told Warren. "I'm not sexist; I'm just an old fart."

She laughed. I'd never heard Sergeant Warren laugh before. It made her sound almost human.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Marvin."

"Charlie, Charlie. 'Mr. Marvin' makes me think of my father, God rest his soul."

"What can we do for you, Charlie?"

"I heard about the graves, the six girls found up here. Gotta say, it shook me right up. I spent nearly a decade up here, first working as an attendant nurse—AN—then offering my ministering services on nights and weekends. Almost got myself killed half a dozen times. But I still think of it as the good old days. Bothers me to think girls could've been dying the same time I was here. Bothers me a lot."

Charlie stared at Warren and Dodge expectantly, but neither said a word. I recognized their strategy by now; they liked to use the silent approach on me as well.

"So," Charlie said briskly, "I might be an old fart who can't remember what he had for breakfast most of the time, but my memories from back in the day are clear as a bell. I took the liberty of making some notes. About some patients and, well"—he cleared his throat, starting to look nervous for a moment—"and about a certain staff member. Don't know if it will help you or not, but I wanted to do something."